The day after Christmas of 2010, I found myself early in the morning going up in the hammock of my father under the himbaba-o tree. The wind embraced me as it howled an indiscernible tune, or was it an aria? The robust branches of the tree were unsuccessful in shielding the overcast sky. My mind meandered, and in its orbit I found sepulchral silence. Until I heard gentle footsteps of my mother who was approaching me with a bowl of piping hot soup.
The day after Christmas of 2009, I found myself early in the morning going up in the hammock of my father under the himbaba-o tree. The wind embraced me as it howled a sweet melody, or was it a harana? The robust branches of the tree were unsuccessful in keeping away the sliver of sunlight that penetrated through the leaves. My mind meandered, and in its orbit I found bliss. Until I heard heavy footsteps of my mother bearing news that inside their room my father was having an attack.
Tatay actually had a stroke. He battled with it in the ICU for 24 days until he died in my arms on Jan. 18, 2010. “Papang, thank you. I love you,” I whispered to him before the monitor registered flat lines at 6:15 p.m. That moment changed the course of my life forever.
It has been a year and my life has never been the same without my father. Time has taught me how to cruise along penetrating emptiness, the kind that picks me up and never lets me go at times. But time has also impressed upon me how to bank on memories. Beautiful memories I forged with my father are like balm to the soul they lift me up and shake away the blues.
When faced with uncertainties, I ask myself, “If Tatay were still alive, what would he do?” My assumption of his possible answers always insulates me. True enough, his teachings on family and friendship, forgiveness and kindness, compassion and gratitude, hope and love are still the tablet from which I always base my dealings about life’s challenges.
I believe in the exclusivity of love because he taught me by example how much he loved my mother only my mother. I asked him once if he ever fell for another woman after getting married to my Nanay. His burnt farmer’s skin turned red and he just shook his head in disbelief that I could mutter such query. I persisted with my question and got this answer from him: “Pag nagmahal ka ng marami, kasalanan yon. Kung sinong pinakasalan, yun lamang ang mamahalin, sa hirap at ginhawa. Hanggang mamatay.” And he walked his talk when, on his death bed, he squeezed three times the hand of Nanay when she whispered to him “I love you.” I was pretty sure that if only there was no big tube in his mouth that moment, he would have profusely showered my mother with endless “I love you’s.”
Last Tuesday was his babang luksa, the first anniversary of Tatay’s death. Nanay woke up early that day. With a smile, she looked at my father’s photograph below the altar and said: “I love you, Syo. Happy anniversary,” referring to Tatay’s first year of passing. We had a Mass at home. And yes, we had a feast. Nanay suggested that we observe his “laglagan” the way Tatay wanted to celebrate his birthday and other milestone occasions at home. We invited relatives and friends to feast with us on that day for almost one whole day. It was a fine day with soft rays of the sun, calming breeze and rolling clouds suggestive perhaps of the life Tatay lives now in heaven.
Tatay taught me that a father and a son could be very good friends, too. And that should be the way. I was already an adult when we really became very close. In our jovial mood, I referred to him as Papang. I felt he relished that I called him Papang, which became my term of endearment for him. Like good friends, we sat down many times to talk about life. With enthusiasm, I sat down with him on his wooden hammock as he discussed with me his experiences during the “panahon ng Hapon” when he and his parents and other relatives hid in makeshift bunkers in the middle of the field. He recounted his experiences of the war as if they just happened yesterday. I did not only get his winsome smile and his discreet cleft chin, I also got his penchant for story telling. My father was a natural and beguiling raconteur.
I hear his laughter in my laughter. After all, I got my humor from him; though, I must admit, he had a different sense of humor. In moments when I would feel physically sore, he would volunteer to massage my feet. In our humble home, I would lie supine on our sofa with my feet on my father’s lap who was seated at the other end of the couch. Just when I was enjoying his kneading and tapping, he would apply extreme pressure on my feet to the point that I would scream. Then he would laugh. That’s my Tatay’s cariño brutal. Then he would resume massaging my feet, this time with tenderness, the kind that would lull me to sleep. When he sensed that I was already half asleep, he would stand up and put a blanket around me. Then my 70-plus-year-old father would leave me in peace, with his wooden cane in tow.
Even if my friends ask me to learn pop songs, I always end up singing kundiman songs. My love for music is centered on kundiman and other classical and folk Filipino songs because this is the kind of music my parents exposed me to. Three days before my father had that fatal stroke, we were listening to Anak Dalita, his favorite song, on YouTube. Yes, the YouTube became our last favorite pastime together because we both enjoyed clicking kundiman songs in the Internet. And when we wanted some upbeat sound, I would search for Pitong Gatang of Fred Panopio and both Tatay and I would dance in my room. Ah, I wish to dance with my father again.
I learned so many things from him. The one that I always share is about legacy. Tatay taught me that legacy is not about a billion pesos earned but about a billion moments shared together.
He may be gone but the many lessons he taught me keep me warm. He remains the sun of my universe.
(For your new beginnings, please e-mail me at bumbaki@yahoo.com. You may want to follow me on Twitter @bum_tenorio. Have a blessed Sunday!)